


Heat

by Limpet666



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Blood, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, feat. the Zsaszettes (briefly)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-14 20:42:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9202397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Limpet666/pseuds/Limpet666
Summary: Oswald has a knack for getting himself into unfortunate situations. Luckily this time he has Zsasz at his side to see him to safety.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Mostly just an excuse to have Oswald get a bit bloodied. 
> 
> And to delve into their relationship a little. Inspired in part by “You’re Mine” by Disturbed.

Oswald awoke with a gasp of breath. The kind of gasp that speaks of pain and stretched limbs; of arms pulled too high and back bowed to an unnatural angle.

Automatically his stiff legs moved beneath him, slipping and sliding against the hard ground to find purchase and take some pressure off his aching shoulders.

He was disoriented and sore and it was only when his feet were on solid ground he was able to begin to take stock.

His shoulders ached horribly from where they had been supporting his weight; wrists handcuffed to a pipe above him. Stood, the pressure was minimal, elbows crooked, wrists almost at head height. But the pins and needles in his fingers told him he had been there a good while.

His side ached fiercely, and as he looked around the dark room, he struggled to recall how he had gotten there.

The last things he remembered were…

Talking with various gang affiliates and…

A flash. And a blazing roar.

A bomb?

Whatever it had been had rendered him unconscious, and he awoke now sore and dazed and…

The presence at his side made him jerk away in surprise, the chains of the handcuffs clinking in protest as he registered who it was.

A dark figure against the shadows materialised himself as Oswald’s faithful assassin, Victor Zsasz. He remained unconscious, held taut against the handcuffs about his wrists. He bore the same tell-tale signs of a bomb, his entire right side burned, bruised or bleeding. A gash across his temple spoke volumes as to why the usually alert man had yet to wake.

“Zsasz!” Oswald hissed, waiting a moment in the unresponsive silence before trying again.

“”Vict--ah!” as he shifted to get closer, a shooting pain erupted in his stomach, and it was only then that Oswald was inclined to take stock of his own injuries,

His entire right side felt hot. From hairline to ankle his skin was warm, and down his body various, more intense, pains made themselves known.

A burn on his cheekbone.

Melted cotton to is shoulder and bicep.

The same to his hip and leg,

A sharp pain in his side--

“Ugh…”

The noise at his side drew his attention.

“Zsasz?”

“Hmm?” the query came half formed and muzzy, but the assassin regained consciousness quickly and within seconds was staring around the room with wide focussed eyed..

“Victor, I--”

Oswald’s attempt to talk was cut off by Zsasz’s insistent ‘shh’ as he took in the surroundings.

For a minute that seemed to last an eternity, the only sounds in the room was their laboured breathing, and the various background noises of a disused leaky warehouse.

“How long have you been awake?” Zsasz finally asked, looking to Oswald with a keen eye, assessing his injuries. His gaze lingered on Oswald’s stomach.

“A few minutes,” Oswald replied, blinking rapidly when his vision blurred and shaking his head. He was having difficulty focussing, and it was getting worse, not better like he would expect.

The clink of chain against metal told Oswald that Zsasz was inspecting his restraints. The metal cuffs were tight about their wrists, and neither of them could reach any tools to attempt to break them.

“I doubt we’ll be alone for long,” Oswald said, filling the silence as he looked around, trying to figure where they were, or who had taken them. The list of suspects was not insignificant.

“Don’t worry, Boss. We’ll get out.” Zsasz always spoke with absolute certainty, although Oswald couldn’t see how at the moment. They were both at the mercy of their captors as far as he could tell.

And Oswald was not feeling at all well. His head continued to spin and his skin prickled with cold.

“Zsasz, I don’t think I’m--” it was only then that Oswald noticed the small pool of blood at his feet, and that the warmth on his leg he had mistaken for a burn was actually wet.

The soft ‘oh’ that escaped him was understated considering he was looking at a jagged piece of shrapnel emerging from his side. His movements upon waking must have half dislodged it, and now he was bleeding at an alarming rate.

“Boss?”

Zsasz’ voice sounded distant, like he’d suddenly moved very far away, and when Oswald tried to lift his head to look at him his whole world spun.

He tried to cling onto consciousness, but it was a losing battle before he even started.

_“Oswa--!”_

Then nothing.

\---

The first time Oswald regained consciousness it was barely for a few seconds. He could feel a cold concrete floor against his back, and sense an approaching presence in a dark, a human-shaped shadow.

“Time to go, Boss,” Someone said, then Oswald was being moved and the pain in his stomach plunged him back into the darkness.

\---

The second time Oswald came around, it was to a wave of pain so excruciating his whole mind was blanked white. He was aware of nothing but pain, but Zsasz told him later that he had been screaming.

Zsasz also told him it was necessary, and that they had hoped he would stay unconscious during the minor surgery to make sure all the debris was out. Zsasz was at his side the entire time, holding him down when needed, and making sure Oswald was patched up to the highest quality they could manage in the place Zsasz and his accomplices called home.

Oswald remembered nothing but the pain.

\---

The third time Oswald awoke it was gentler, and the first thing he heard was soft talking from across the room. His stomach ached dully, and his vision was slow, either from the trauma, or the drugs running through his veins.

Rolling his head to the side, he could make out Zsasz and two women. All three were sat in chairs, one woman beside Zsasz, the other pulled up right in front of him.

In the quiet room, Oswald could just about hear what they were saying.

“This is gonna hurt.” The woman opposite Zsasz had his hand in her’s and was looking down at it with a frown.

“Just do it,” Zsasz sounded almost bored, and the women shared a nod before a horrible series of noises were audible even to Oswald.

It sounded like popping joints, grinding cartilage, and creaking bones, all undertoned by Zsasz’ low groan of pain. The woman at his side was holding hard to his injured arm to make sure he didn’t move it, and his other hand was clawed in a white-knuckle grip against the armrest of the chair.

Oswald tried to say something in sympathy, but his brain couldn’t seem to figure out how to make words.

Soon the woman was wrapping the reset hand in white bandage, and Oswald fell asleep to the sounds of Zsasz’s soft panting. As he had done on many nights before, but for entirely different reasons.

\---

Oswald had awoken slowly to the feeling of warmth and security, but all too soon he became painfully aware of the fresh stitches in his abdomen.

The pain had been mitigated somewhat by the welcomed sight of Victor Zsasz sat at his bedside. What was not so welcome was watching him adding fresh tallies to his arm with a box cutter. Right above the thick bandage that was holding his injured hand immobile.

“Should you really be doing that?”

Zsasz shrugged at the question, finishing his cut before putting the blade down. Oswald counted three new tallies before Zsasz covered them with a clean dressing.

“The girls say you’ll be fine,” Zsasz said by way of comfort, sliding his uninjured hand into Oswald’s and squeezing when Oswald curled his fingers around it. “It’s gonna hurt for long time, but it didn’t hit anything important.” Then, considering his words, Zsasz corrected himself.

“Didn’t hit anything _vital._ ”

After all, the shrapnel had already hit something important: Oswald.

Oswald nodded in understanding, mostly unbothered by the diagnosis. He was used to pain. He lived with it daily. What was a little more?

But at least he had Zsasz there. That alone made the ordeal far more bearable.

“How long have we been here?” Oswald finally asked after a lengthy silence. Zsasz could have said 10 hours or two weeks, Oswald genuinely had no idea how long he had been in and out of consciousness.

“About 30 hours,” Zsasz informed him, and Oswald nodded again, looking at his current situation. Under the covers he could feel his legs were bare, and the too-large tee shirt he was wearing was definitely not what he arrived in. It could have been Zsasz’s, if Zsasz favoured baggy shirts in his downtime, but Oswald thought it more plausible that it was probably a loan from one of Zsasz’s accomplices.

He could feel the sting and pull of various dressed and/or stitched injuries, and there was a drip taped just below the crook of his arm.

“You have your own doctor?” Oswald asked curiously, looking back to Zsasz, who half shrugged.

“One of the girl’s was a nurse. She knows stuff.”

Oswald would have to remember to thank her personally. All the ‘stuff’ she knew had surely saved his life.

“Is she the one that…” He gestured to Zsasz’s bandaged hand with a small frown.

Zsasz held it up with a nod, “Shouldn’t be any permanent damage.” He sounded almost cheerful.

Like he hadn’t dislocated and fractured his own hand in order to pull it through the handcuff and free himself.

Oswald was no fool, and it hadn’t taken much thought to figure out why they were at Zsasz’s and not the hospital, and how they had gotten there before Oswald had bled out.

Because Oswald remembered the blood. How much there had been.

Zsasz must have freed himself the moment Oswald had passed out. And proceeded, with only one functioning hand, to free Oswald from his own restraints, kill the three guards (Oswald guessed, from Zsasz’ new cuts) that came to investigate, and then carry Oswald to safety.

“Why?” Oswald asked, lifting his hand to rest against Zsasz’s neck, thumb stroking against his jaw, “Why do that to yourself?”

There would have undoubtedly been a more opportune time for Zsasz to free himself further down the line. Breaking his hand was a huge risk for a man that fought and killed for a living. Even as it was, it would be weeks before Zsasz could use his left hand again. He had risked permanent nerve damage, of not being able to hold a gun or knife again, for Oswald.

Zsasz ducked his head to press a kiss to Oswald’s palm. Then he took ahold of his wrist, fingers wrapped tight enough to be uncomfortable, and Oswald inhaled deeply at the intimacy of it.

“Because right now you’re mine,” Zsasz told him, dark eyes burning into Oswald’s with absolute certainty. “And _no one_ is going to take you from me.”

And Oswald believed him.


End file.
